


An Evening with Narcissus

by Grayswandir (dostoevskysmouse)



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-15
Updated: 2003-12-15
Packaged: 2019-10-14 19:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dostoevskysmouse/pseuds/Grayswandir
Summary: Dorian pays Basil a visit.





	An Evening with Narcissus

It was getting on to evening, and the ruddy gold of sunset beamed through the great square window on the western wall, tinting Basil's thick, leafy brushstrokes with autumnal brown, and gleaming on the wet amber paintblossoms. The easel rattled quietly as his hand flew over the canvas, pausing here and there with quick, sure motions like a hummingbird drinking the bold streaked colors; now and then his eyes narrowed for an instant, and he thrust the brush back into his palette, then assailed the painting once more. In the garden, the low voices of the evening birds already bade one another good night, and the creeping shadows began to displace the sun's fire in the far corners. Basil didn't look up, but pressed on feverishly, tossing his head to throw his black curls out of his eyes. He was only half aware of a faint click as the inner door opened, and the butler stepped inside.

"Mr. Dorian Gray calling, sir," the butler said.

Basil paused abruptly. He bit his lip, glanced at the clock, then looked back at his painting, and frowning lowered his brush. "An odd hour," he murmured. "Well, show him in, Parker. And bring us some tea, if he is staying."

"Sir."

As the butler went out, Basil added a few final dark strokes, then stepped back to examine his work, drying the brown bristles of his paintbrush against a colorsmeared rag from the table. It would need some touching up in daylight, he thought to himself, squinting critically. But overall it was quite good.

He heard the even snick of Dorian's fine boots on the wood floor behind him, and he put the brush and rag back on the table and turned around, unrolling his shirt cuffs. "Dorian," he said with a smile. "I'm so glad you came. You've hardly been to see me in a week, you know. I've rather missed you."

The smile Dorian returned was half-hearted at best, and almost cynical. "Yes, I've missed you too, Basil." He walked to the divan and threw himself onto the cushions, heaving an irritated sigh. "At least I am sure I can always count upon you. Though really it's quite dull of you to be so dependable."

"Mm," Basil agreed, and rubbed absently at the dry paintsmudges on his hands. He went to sit with his friend. "I suppose you have just come from Harry's, then. How is the old fellow?"

"How should I know, since he leaves me there to wait for him all afternoon, and never shows up."

The butler entered again, bearing a tea tray, which he placed neatly on the small table near the divan. The dim sunlight filtering through the window behind him edged his bending silhouette with orange flame, and glinted in a bright arc down the path of the steaming water as it filled the silver cups. Dorian watched with a bitter expression.

"Thank you, Parker," said Basil.

"Of course, sir."

When the butler had gone out and closed the door, Basil resumed. "You were saying," he said, leaning forward to take one of the cups from the tray. "About Harry."

"I was saying that he is always atrociously late," Dorian muttered. "I believe he only bothers to set appointments in order to be absolutely sure of breaking them."

"Dorian, he would probably tell you so himself. You know Harry isn't to be relied upon."

"Well, it's charming of him, but he oughtn't to be so consistent about it. There's no novelty in that. He's becoming almost as predictable as you." Dorian reached for his teacup, and glancing at Basil noticed the quietly wounded arch of his black brows, the slight twist of his lips. "Oh, look, I'm sorry, Basil. I don't mean that."

"No, it's quite all right; you are telling the truth. Harry is always the first to remind me of my virtues, by disparaging them."

"He says you would be better without so many virtues."

"Yes, but I would be someone else."

Dorian looked at him, shrugged stiffly, and sipped his tea. He turned back to the window and stared out into the darkening garden. There was a candle on the tea tray, and Basil sat forward to light it, still watching his friend. In the brief, pale flare as he struck the match, the image that burnt into his vision was like a photograph: Dorian in profile, sulking boyishly, and radiant with that otherworldly beauty of lost time and bittersweet memory, as the face of some youth from the past—changeless, immovable, and tinged with honeygold aging, like old paper: his smooth cream skin, his flaxen hair. It brought to Basil's mind the scent of autumn, the feel of dried leaves and pressed butterflies in books with crumbling pages. He cursed himself that he hadn't a brush and canvas ready.

Shaking out the match, he replaced the candle on the tray, where it sputtered slightly.

"Dorian... You will sit for me again, won't you?" he asked, watching the flame.

Dorian looked at him. "What, tonight?"

"I have more candles. It would only be a little dark. You're in perfect form."

"It's always business with you," said Dorian. He leaned back into the large cushions, closing his eyes. "I don't wish to sit for you tonight."

"Very well; I only wanted to ask. But you mustn't say business, Dorian. That sounds so cold. I am in love with art—there is nothing like business about it to me."

"You should learn to be in love with life. Loving art is vanity, since art is a mirror."

"That is Harry's phrase," said Basil.

"What if it is? Harry is always right."

"But never sincere."

Dorian flicked his eyes open, glaring. "He charms you too. You're simply jealous of him."

"Yes," said Basil, still looking at the candle. "Sometimes I am."

There was a long pause before Dorian opened his mouth again, and when he did his words were gentler. "You and I are great friends, Basil. You know that."

"Of course. Of course." Basil sat up and drank his tea, and glanced sideways at Dorian when he found that he was being watched. "Do stop looking at me like you pity me, Dorian; I quite understand why you like Harry. I'm very fond of him myself. He has his wit, and I have my art; it's no fault of yours if the one flatters you more than the other."

"I don't go to him for flattery, Basil."

"No; that was unfair of me. But I didn't mean that flattery was all you wanted. It's merely all I have to offer. Mirrors, as you say."

Dorian pursed his lips, and toyed with his cup, turning it to catch the light. After a moment, he said, "There is something too impersonal about the flattery of mirrors. They only tell whether one is beautiful, when what one wants is to know whether one is admired."

"Admired!" Basil laughed softly and shook his head. "It would transgress the bounds of propriety, I think, for me to tell you how much you are. My dear boy, you are so much admired that it is perfectly unseemly; it is almost indecent." He regretted his words the moment after he had said them, and even colored slightly when Dorian looked up to meet his eyes; but Dorian smiled.

"Is that true?"

"Well." Basil reached up to loosen the necktie he wasn't wearing, and straightened his collar awkwardly. "I can hardly fail to go wrong if I answer that, can I?"

"Oh, come, don't be a coward, Basil. It's so tedious of you never to go wrong."

Basil hesitated, faltered, and turned his eyes nervously away to the window without answering. It was past sunset now, and only the pale lavender haze of twilight still lingered above the trees outside; the garden was all in shadow. The stark reflection of the candleflame glinted brightly on the polished panes, and with it the glow of their two orange faces, and the white gleam from the silver. Dorian caught Basil's shifting eyes in the glass, and laughed.

"I believe I'm embarrassing you. How shy you artists are! And here I was just thinking how warm it is, and was going to ask your pardon to remove my waistcoat. But now you will probably want me to keep it on."

Basil dropped his gaze. "Not at all, Dorian; make yourself at home. It is no difference to me."

Still half smiling, Dorian stood and undid the shiny row of brass buttons, shrugged the waistcoat off of his shoulders, and dropped it onto the piano stool, followed presently by his yellow silk cravat. He returned to the divan and sat down, facing Basil with a strangely reckless expression. "Basil. Look at me."

The painter raised his eyes. Dorian was leaning close to him: the first two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the fair pale skin of his chest; his red full lips were parted, and his eyes were brilliant. His right hand rested suggestively between his legs.

"You see," said Dorian, laughing again; "there is the difference between men and mirrors. A mirror would not have blushed."

Basil stood quickly, replacing his cup on the table with unsteady hands, and walked to the window. His cheeks were burning. Outside the garden was almost wholly invisible, a massive silhouette under skies only dimly studded with sparse stars, but he stared at it nevertheless. He tried not to watch Dorian's reflection, which rose to follow him, then disappeared as it passed in front of the candle. A moment later, he felt warm hands against his back, and shuddered.

"You act as if you had never done this before," said Dorian.

"What?"

"Basil, a fellow could hear your heartbeat from across the room; it's no use pretending to be subtle." He slipped his hands around Basil's waist, dragging his fingertips over the thin white cloth until they met, and pulling on one of his buttons. Basil tensed. "You know, you might ask me to stop."

"I..." Basil pulled out of Dorian's embrace and turned round, backing up until his shoulders were against the glass. "Dorian— This is wrong, this... You must stop listening to Harry, Dorian; I can't imagine what he has been telling you."

"He has been telling me not to waste my youth."

"Your youth—"

"I'm greatly in your debt, Basil. Not least of all for your introducing me to him; he has changed my life. No, more than that; he made me realize what life is. Could one ever be grateful enough for a thing like that? I should like to. And I believe this is what you want from me."

Basil shook his head. "I want nothing from you, Dorian. I want you to be my friend; that's all."

"Then tell me to stop."

Dorian stepped forward and trailed his fingers up Basil's chest, around his neck, and under his loose collar. Basil stared. Beneath the youth's light, delicate hand, his whole strong frame was shivering: his face glittered with a sheen of perspiration, and his dark eyes were wide. He started to pull away again, and at once Dorian's grasp tightened around his hair, and pulled him forward into a kiss.

It was warm, and slightly bitter with the taste of black tea and cinnamon. Dried leaves and pressed butterflies, thought Basil, and crumbling pages, and fading youth. He drew back. Dorian clutched at his shirt, and after the briefest of wavering pauses, Basil moved back into the kiss, gripping Dorian against him with firm hands. A soft murmur of pleasure broke on the youth's lips, and when Basil at last let him go, they were both panting for breath.

"You will never forgive me for this," said Basil, watching Dorian wrestle with his shirt buttons, and stroking the boy's hair.

Dorian slid the light cloth off of Basil's shoulders. "You're forgiven," he said, brushing his lips against Basil's rough cheek. He traced the thin trail of dark hair down Basil's chest with his fingers, and went gracefully to his knees.

He had half undone the buckle on Basil's belt when a flood of dim light poured in from the doorway, and with it the words, "Lord Henry Wotton, sir—oh!"

Dorian scrambled to his feet with a startled cry, and Basil hissing snatched his shirt up from the floor and pulled the wrong sleeve over his arm, but it was too late; with his usual languid audacity, Lord Henry had followed the butler and was already standing behind him in the doorway, looking on with a delighted and thoroughly entertained expression. He touched the butler on the shoulder, offering to relieve him of his candle, and the butler, pale and bewildered, handed it over instantly, and lost no time in escaping the scene. Lord Henry stepped inside calmly and closed the door, taking his time. The candle shook in his hand when he turned back around: he was laughing.

Dorian, quivering in the middle of the room, was flushed and indignant; his pretty lips trembled with the fury that was suppression of shame.

"I thought I would find you here," Lord Henry told him, still with a smile. "To be fair, however, I am not quite clairvoyant, for I certainly thought rather less of you would be visible. I say, Dorian, I intended to tell you how impolite you were to smoke so many of my cigarettes while I was not there to watch you enjoy them. But I fear I was overestimating my cigarettes."

Dorian swallowed and looked around for Basil, who stood white and shaking with his bare shoulders against the wall, clutching his shirt rigidly to his chest and looking as if he were about to collapse from mortification. Dorian coughed at him disdainfully before stamping back to the piano stool, where he set about retying his cravat, and fixing his hair.

Lord Henry set his candle down and walked up beside Basil, smiling dimly. "Basil, you look a sight, my poor fellow; you had better sit down. Do you know, I had you pegged for a prude. The things we never guess! You will have to lend me your secret sometime." He reached for Basil's arm, and the painter turned away with a groan.

"Harry, I beg you."

"Your arm, Basil; I am helping you to your chair." Lord Henry waited a moment with his hand outstretched, but Basil didn't move.

"Please leave, Harry. I... I feel terribly ill."

Elevating his brows in an uncharacteristic look of sympathy, Lord Henry fixed his gloves, and went back to the door. "I will wait for you outside, Dorian; my driver will take you home. You might apologize to Parker on your way out; he must be dreadfully jealous. Good evening, Basil." He tipped his hat, then stepped out, whistling in the hallway.

"Jealous!" murmured Dorian, buttoning his waistcoat furiously. "I wonder if he knows the meaning of the word. I believe we actually amused him!" He yanked roughly at his lapels and checked his reflection in the window, glaring. "It's a wonder his wife takes the trouble to sleep around."

He strode off towards the door, and just as he reached it, Basil said softly, "Dorian."

Dorian turned back and looked him over briefly: his ragged, sweaty, ashen figure slumped pathetically against the wall, disheveled dark curls clinging damp to his temples, arched brows pleading. There was a flash of pity in Dorian's blue eyes, and then he swallowed and smoothed his shirtfront, and walked out. He closed the door quietly.

Basil sank to his knees with a sharp, stifled moan, and buried his face in his hands. A moment later, he heard the horses start away.


End file.
